August 21, 2002

Today is the day to get a new attitude.

I'm pleased to say that I am featured on Über. I believe it to be a place of new friends and ideas. Don't believe me? Just go here, here or even here.

16

George and Geflen strolled across campus to some destination that Geflen had in mind but George, maddened, did not know. He did not like walking someplace without knowing exactly how far it was, and despised the way Geflen gestured largely and leisurely as he walked, as if to demonstrate that he was a man of the world.

George didn't even bother listening to what Geflen said. He actually hoped that he was talking about his article so that he wouldn't have to listen as a captive audience once they were in an enclosed space. George kept his eyes on the dingy sidewalk, occasionally rolling an eye towards the drab campus buildings.

George actually didn't mind the Geflen kept babbling, because he still wasn't sure what he was going to say. "Gee, Henry, we all know that you're not very talented; so where did you find the inspiration to write this thesis?" "Hey, Henry, somebody stole my ability to write. Was it you?"

Geflen stopped, stone cold, in the middle of the street to stare longingly at a vintage 1933 maroon Bentley parked ostensatiously in the sunlight. George stopped and waited impatiently as Geflen gaped so longingly, passionately and ruefully at this automobile that one might have thought that he bought it back in 1933 and sold it a few years later on. George knew for a fact that Geflen could barely afford to drive his 1982 Honda Civic and did it badly at that, so this whole car fixation thing was merely an annoying affectation, an attempt to prove his apparently newfound wealth, fame and thus deserved snobbishness.

"God, I love these things," Geflen said with awe. George merely hmm'ed and made a motion to keep walking. The moved on, as Geflen switched his discussion to cars and which kind he would buy when he became rich. Now, George owned a stableful of expensive cars but he still didn't care about them.

Finally, the two came to a dingy college restaurant called Drafty's located in a basement, appropriately enough. It wasn't much to speak of but it was the most popular place in the area, and Geflen wanted to be seen with George. So, as they sat and ordered and ate, Geflen loudly pronounced Georgeo's name over and over again, in hopes that somebody in the restaurant would know who George was. George remained monosyllabic throughout the repast, still thinking about what he would say. He realized that he would never, though, come up with the appropriate phrasing before he got sick of hearing Geflen babble and name-drop.

"Say Henry," he interrupted Geflen who was talking about, ridiculously enough, Mexico at this point. "We all know that you stink as a writer. So how'd you end up with this thesis?"

Geflen, at that moment, began choking on his chicken tender. George rolled his eyes. Of course it made perfect sense, he thought, that this most annoying meeting was being further prolonged by a particularly lazy contraption.